


two sides of the coin

by OnyxSphinx



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: 'it's platonic to kiss your enemies!!!', Five Plus One, M/M, Pining, it's mutual but hermann doesn't know, tis new year's day have some newmann
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:01:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22072960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: five times Hermann kissed Newt and one time Newt kissed him back
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Comments: 3
Kudos: 71





	two sides of the coin

_one_

* * *

"We're all going to die because of you," Newton says.

They've only known each other for three minutes—or; rather; they have known each other for four years but they have only _seen_ each other for the last three minutes. They're sitting at a café table, if that means anything. The world is ending all around them.

Hermann bristles. " _Pardon?_ "

Newton rolls his eyes. "C'mon, man, you're a genius, but you _refuse_ to see what's right in front of you—you're going to miss something important."

"I _wrote_ the Jaeger code!" Hermann hisses, trying his best to keep his voice down, and not, honestly, really succeeding in it; here is the man whom he respects— _respected_ the opinion of above all others; who he thought _understood_ him, and he's just— _sitting_ there and digging his fingers into Hermann's greatest fears.

"And giant robots are great, Herms, don't get me wrong, but—" he punctuates the statement with a gesture of his hand; wide and flashy and so, so painfully _him,_ how is Hermann meant to _think_ about this? "If we want to solve the issue, we first have to _understand_ it. Brute strength isn't going to work forever, man."

"It's working just fine right now!" Hermann snaps.

Heads turn. He flushes; sinking back against the chair, grip tight on his cane, and with the other, picks up his cup and takes a drag, not bothering to hide his grimace at the watery, tepid liquid that's masquerading as tea. Takes a breath. "Pardon me," he says, stiffly, "I have places to be."

He rises; turns and walks out.

Behind him, Geiszler is calling his name, but he ignores it; quickens his pace.

When he gets back to the hotel room, he closes the door; sits with his back to it, knees up; stares at nothing. Wonders how things could have gone so wrong. Well—no; that is an easy question to answer. It all went wrong because it was _him_ —sure, people start _off_ liking him, but soon enough, they realise who he actually is and it disappoints them. _Geiszler_ is no different, even if—even _if_ Hermann had hoped different.

He should have let that spark die instead of nurturing it like some— _fool._

His phone rings; then goes quiet, vibrating a moment later. Geiszler; he's the only contact with a distinctive pattern on vibrate. The thought of looking at whatever he's written leaves a sour taste in Hermann's mouth.

He rises; goes to his suitcase to pull out his notebook to check his schedule for the next day. A paper flutters out—small and almost square, and he _knows_ what it is, but he can't help but pick it up anyway. Geiszler's face—freckled, his hair falling messily, grin wide—stares back at him.

Hermann's heart clenches.

He takes a deep breath; and then, on instinct, presses his lips to the photo; eyes closed, because he cannot bear to _look,_ not _now,_ and then swallows; shoves it in one of the tiny pockets of the suitcase without looking at it.

"It's nothing," he says, and his voice is as steady as he can manage; but he's not sure who he's trying to convince.

That night, he dreams of yelling at a short, bespectacled biologist; wakes with the feeling that, perhaps, the _something_ burning in his chest in the dream wasn’t anger, at least not wholly. He stumbles out of bed and splashed cold water on his face and tries to put it out of his mind as best he can.

* * *

_two_

* * *

Perhaps one of Hermann’s least favourite effects of the wartime is how rapidly it’s becoming harder and harder to find good tea.

Well—there are other things, too; but that’s the one that he’s focusing on right now, because he’s running on suboptimal levels of both sleep and caffeine.

“Coffee?” Geiszler offers; _idiot,_ Hermann thinks, which is proven when, a moment later, he trips on his own untied shoelaces—the very ones Hermann has reminded him to leave up _seven times_ in the past hour because it is a _safety issue._

“The coffee tastes like watery cardboard,” Hermann points out, “I’ll _pass._ ”

The other huffs. “Snob,” he says, but that’s that, thankfully—it doesn’t devolve into their usual petty fights.

Hermann actually manages to get work done, though, and that—well; it’s _unusual,_ to say the least; Newton being so… _agreeable._ It puts him on edge.

Finally, after hours of it, he snaps. “Alright, enough of—whatever this is. What is going on!?”

Newton blinks at him; hands toying with a scalpel as he waits for the results of the tests he’s running to show up on screen. “Uh, what?”

“ _You,_ ” Hermann says, impatiently, “you’re being— _decent_. Why?”

“Oh wow, okay, _first_ off all—“ Newton raises a finger, “—fuck you, I can be _decent._ And secondly, I’ll have you know, I’m just— _thinking._ ”

“Really,” Hermann asks drily. “What a surprise.”

The other scowls at him. “As if _you’d_ know anything _about_ me,” he retorts.

“I—that’s not what I said!”

“Oh yeah? Well, Mr. Stick-Up-My-Ass—or, no, sorry, _Doctor_ Stick-Up-My-Ass—you can stop worrying about me. We both know it’s not real anyway.”

Hermann inhales sharply. “Fine,” he bites out, “anything _else?_ ”

“Yeah, kiss me—”

Hermann does. Hard. Bites the other’s lip viciously, enough to draw blood. Newton is slack beneath him; scalpel clattering to the table in surprise.

Hermann realises, a moment later, that it was probably an _expression._

He pulls away; embarrassed.

“What the hell, man?” the biologist demands, hand coming up to his mouth, “did you—did you _bite_ me!?”

“You deserved it!” Hermann shoots back; takes a few steps back; matches Newton’s glare with his own. The scent of blood is heavy, and he realises that some of it is on his own lips; draws a hand across his mouth to try and get rid of it and averts his gaze from Newton's, suddenly embarrassed.

The other makes a face. "Whatever, man, you're weird," he declares. "If I have to have stiches, I _swear_ —"

"Oh don't be _dramatic,_ " Hermann huffs, "it's barely a scratch. Facial wounds simply bleed more."

Geiszler sets throws up his hands. "I'm going to medical," he says.

* * *

_three_

* * *

There's a kaiju on the loose.

There is a kaiju on the loose and Hermann cannot find Geiszler _anywhere._

He's checked LOCCENT; he's checked the observation deck. He's checked Geiszler's room, and the lab. Hell, he's even checked a few of the broom closets, because something about the reminder of looming destruction makes people more likely to accept Geiszler's advances.

As much as he hates to admit it, he's getting— _concerned._ Though the man is an arrogant, loud, annoying, fashion-blind disaster, he is also a genius who is literally the foremost scientist in his field, and they—well, they _need_ him. Hermann may often decry the importance of Geiszler's work, but it _is_ important, and it _does_ actually, on _occasion,_ produce useful information.

In the back of his mind, he counts down the time it will take the kaiju to reach the miracle mile—they got word of it late; tech issues and weather anomalies caused the report of Breach activity to be delayed, and they've only just deployed Cherno Alpha. The likelihood of the kaiju reaching land is higher than Hermann would like.

He purses his lips; tries his phone again.

_Ring...ring...ring—_

" _Hey, this is Newt. I can't answer right now, so try again later—or don't, I don't care—_ " _Beep._

" _Geiszler,_ " Hermann growls, "answer your _phone,_ you moron. We—" _are_ worried, he doesn't say. I _am worried._

Oh; God. He lets out a choked laugh. He's _worried._ Over _Newton Geiszler._

What has the world _come_ to?

His phone buzzes. _Tendo: dude get up to loccent ur going to want to get kaiju stats_

Right. Right. He shakes his head, trying to get rid of his thoughts. Whatever Geiszler is doing—wherever he is—doesn't concern Hermann right now. He needs to get the readouts for the kaiju so he can keep refining his predictive model and better advise on Jaeger modification.

Still; as he stands at the monitors, he can't help but worry his lip raw; mind straying from his work of noting down the data to constructing horrifying possibilities. What if Geiszler finally went out on that boat-trip to collect water samples to test for k-blue effects like he's been harping on about wanting to do for ages? What if he gets trampled by the public as they try and get into the kaiju shelters? What if he—

"Dr. Gottlieb?"

He starts; turns his head to look at the j-tech who spoke. "What?"

"It's over," the tech says, "they took down Atticon. You can leave now."

"I—yes, sorry." Hermann shakes his head. "I was just—lost in thought. Apologies."

The walls around him seem to be darker than usual; the tap of his cane against the ground sharper than usual. The air... _duller,_ somehow; more lifeless.

He closes his eyes for a moment; leaning against the wall before he opens the door. He needs a moment—

"Hermann? Bud? You okay?"

Hermann's eyes snap open. _Geiszler._

The other is standing right in front of his and all Hermann can think is _relief relief relief._ " _Geiszler_ ," he gaps, and takes a step forward; hand hovering awkwardly at his side. And then, in a moment of sheer— _something,_ he darts forward; hand cupping the other's cheek, and kisses him; short and barely more than a brush of lips against the biologist's cheek.

"Uh," Geiszler says, dumbly, "what? I crash hard enough to sleep through the kaiju alarm and forget to turn my phone on and suddenly—"

"You're alright," Hermann says, and steps back. "I was— _concerned._ I couldn't find you. I was merely—a momentary lapse in—" he sighs.

"Accidental display of emotion," Geiszler fills in, with a nod. "Got it. So you still hate me, right?"

Hermann huffs. "Obviously," he says.

_Obviously._

* * *

_four_

* * *

They're alone in the lab, now.

Well—more alone. The last members of both their respective divisions, excepting themselves, were let go. Budget cuts, apparently. People are putting their money into the Coastal Wall. "Bull _shit_ ," Hermann hisses, glaring bleary-eyed at the article on the Wall.

Newton, by his side, gives a hiccough. "Walls never work," he says, sagely, and then drops his pencil and whispers " _ow!_ "

They haven't slept in more than a day, and Newton managed to find a bottle of kosher vodka—more than half-empty, but enough to pour a few fingers for each of them.

Hence why Newton is sprawled on the sofa and Hermann is sitting haphazardly on it, using his parka as a makeshift pillow, and glaring dourly at an article announcing how the PPDC is endorsing the Coastal Wall project and will be moving to shut down the Jaeger program in the next year.

"We're all going to die," Hermann says, but it's less of a painful admission, or some heart-wrenching declaration as it is a frustrated exhale. "We're all going to die, and it's going to be my bloody _father's_ fault."

Newton says something unintelligible, and then he's batting Hermann's phone aside and his head is in Hermann's lap. "Fuck your dad," he says, "pay attention to _me._ "

"Your ego doesn't need to get any larger," Hermann snaps.

The biologist's eyes widen, and he pouts. The lenses of his glasses magnify his eyes, and Hermann finds himself trying to pin down the colour. They keep— _shifting._ One moment, they're green, then sea-blue, and then the light hits them and they're full of flecks of gold. It's very distracting.

Newton yawns, eyes flickering shut, and Hermann bites back a mournful sigh at that; focuses, instead, on the rest of his face. Oh; as if that's any _hardship._ Newton is a—a _painfully_ attractive man. To Hermann, at least. Purely physically. He's. Good to look at. Very nice to look at...lots of freckles. They dot his face like someone took a paintbrush and flicked it in his direction. Hermann tries to figure out why he's never noticed them before.

"...Hermann?"

Newton's looking at him; soft and unguarded and his lips are parted slightly and one of his hands is on the front of Hermann's sweater and Hermann isn't looking, he's _not_ looking, he's not _thinking_ —he's just acting, and he's leaning forward and kissing Newton, and his hand is falling into Newton's hair and; oh—

It lasts about two seconds before Hermann realises that the other isn't responding at all and, though he may be half out of it, he isn't _that_ oblivious. He pulls back; shakes his head. "Apologies," he says, "I wasn't thinking."

"What—no—Hermann..." the other trails off. "I—nevermind. Yeah, nevermind. I should, uh, get to bed, probably." He pushes himself off of the sofa; gestures to the door. "Uh. G'night." And then he's gone, and Hermann's left alone in the lab by himself with nothing but his parka, the waxy feel of chapstick on his lips, and a confusing, sinking feeling in his gut.

* * *

_five_

* * *

They are dying.

Perhaps this is the worst of it; that they will not be given the dignity of a quick death; of remembrance. They will die, unknown, and unremembered, under the claws and acid and in the maws of these beasts from another realm.

And they _are_ going to die, no matter what anyone—Newton or the Marshal—says. His model says so, and maths are the truest thing he knows. They do not lie. They are as close as one can get to absolute truth; the handwriting of God. And his numbers say that there will be a double event and then a triple event and then—and _then_ it doesn't matter, because they will _not_ survive this; not like _this._

He thinks Newton knows this.

He _thought_ Newton knew this.

Then again, he never could predict Newton Geiszler.

It's almost hysterical; to think of it as he crouches here, on the ground, Newton's hands gripping, desperate, the front of his sweater; that though he's repeating in a fervent mantra Newton's name, willing him to be _alright,_ goddamnit, part of his mind is still detatched; still making commentary.

That part sounds suspiciously like a befreckled, bespectacled scientist.

"I'm fine," Newton chokes out; finally, and he _isn't,_ and they both know it, but Hermann doesn't point that out. "H—help me up and g—get the—get the Marshal."

And then the Marshal is saying: _I need you to do it again._

"You'll kill yourself!" Hermann shouts at him, and his throat is raw, already, but he manages this; and it almost sounds like he doesn't care because of his own feelings but rather because he is, yet again, telling his lab partner off for doing something _stupid._

"I'll be a rockstar," Newton says. "I gotta go. I'll see you on the other side."

And so Hermann swallows back his instinct to grab the other and shake him; because _instinct_ does not serve him well; because he is the kind of person who waits, because that turns out better in the long run but—God; for a moment, he wishes he _weren't._

And then there were two.

"Only _two?_ " Hermann hisses, staring at the screen. "No—that's not right. There are supposed to be _three!_ "

And Newton yells at him about being wrong, and then they Drift, and then they get back to the Shatterdome as fast as they _possibly_ can because; God; Hermann is _right._

And then they're waiting, breath bated, Hermann clutching Newton for support and leaning heavily on his cane, and he can feel the way the breaths rasp in and out of Newton's lungs because they are _his_ lungs, also, and then the Breach is gone, and they are _alive._

LOCCENT bursts into sound; loud enough to make Hermann's head ache, but Newton is pulling him in for a hug, and he is grinning; they are _both_ grinning and Hermann isn't thinking, he's just watching the other; the elation shining in his eyes, and he doesn't _mean_ to but he's leaning in and _kissing_ him, and—

Oh; _no._

He jerks away; ignores Newton's surprised yelp as he shoves him away and hurries out.

"Hermann!"

He ignores him; he _is_ ignoring him, and he quickens his pace though is _hurts,_ and the footsteps behind him are getting faster—

* * *

_one_

* * *

"Hermann! Hey, wait up!"

" _What,_ " Hermann snaps, stopping despite himself, " _what,_ Newton?"

The other comes to a halt; doubling over, for a moment, panting, and then he straightens and says, "Where are you going?"

"To—" And Hermann stops, because he doesn't _know,_ besides _away._ Besides _far from you,_ but that seems unfair, really, because Newton is still looking at him with _something_ in his eyes.

Newton clears his throat. "Can I make a suggestion?" he asks, and takes a step forward.

Hermann's breath catches, and he flinches. What is Newton...?

"My room," Newton continues, "'cause I'd like to finish what you started back there, but I don't think that the hallway or the lab is the best place to do that. Not very, uh. Private." And then he stops and looks at the floor; picking at his nails; a nervous habit Hermann has known of for over a _decade._

And then Hermann blinks, because—"Sorry, _what?_ " he says.

"...oh god, that was too forward, wasn't it," Newton groans, "look, just ignore me or whatever—"

"Shut up," Hermann snaps. "No—actually, come here."

Newton does; looking a bit apprehensive, so Hermann says, as lightly as he can, "Closer. I don't bite—well, not usually." That gets a laugh, because; well; neither of them have forgotten it. "N—"

And that's as far as he gets, because Newton's hand is in his hair and his lips are on Hermann's, muffling any sound and; oh; Hermann melts; knees going weak because; God; _Newton Geiszler_ is kissing _him_ and it is—not very good, honestly, a bit sloppy and Newton tastes like cigarettes and the sour tang of fear but—

Newton Geiszler is kissing _him._

Maybe it's not going to be such a bad year after all.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
